


If It Gets You Through

by lillyluna



Category: Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Best Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:43:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillyluna/pseuds/lillyluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael calls Ryan after a night of heavy drinking. </p><p>A one shot that could be a prequel to Bad Choices.</p><p>This is independent of any other universe I've created.</p><p>This clearly isn't real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Gets You Through

**Author's Note:**

> This won't be everyone's cup of tea I get it. 
> 
> This can be post-Beijing/Pre-London. I didn't really ground it in a time zone so choose whichever one you want. 
> 
> I started writing this without meaning to tie it into Bad Choices but now that it's done I totally see how the two could tie together.

“Nice.” 

Michael comes to when his front door slams shut. He’s sprawled in the middle of his staircase, his body curled up uncomfortably across the bottom half of his hardwood steps. There is a puddle of puke next to him and he feels it crusted over half his face. 

He hasn’t pissed himself and that at least is an improvement over last time. Last time though he’d at least managed to make it all the way upstairs to crash somewhere closer to the couch. 

“Yo, you fucking alive? Move or something shit.” 

Michael’s head pounds and his stomach feels like it’s full of molten lava. His memories from the night before are non-existent. It’s easier to stay curled up next to a puddle of vomit than to move. 

“Jee-sus.” 

Michael knows it’s Ryan. 

Ryan kicks him sharply in the side and Michael flips him off. His car keys slip out of his hand and drop to the next step with a clatter. 

“’Course you fucking drove.” Another sharp kick to his side, “fucking dumbass.” 

Michael attempts to open his eyes because even more hungover than he thinks anyone in recorded history has ever been he knows it’s bad. Last time someone had called him a cab and he’d had to go get his car the next day. 

Sunlight pours through his still half opened front door and the pain of it makes him nauseous. He throws up again, and watches the immaculately clean black sneakers covered with silver studs step down towards a cleaner step.

“This ain’t how you keep the romance alive.” Ryan says, “This’s hella gross.” 

“Y’ere?” Michael manages to mumble. 

“You invited me dumbass. Bought my ticket. Forgot me at the airport.” 

Michael doesn’t have the faintest memory of talking to Ryan or of buying a plane ticket. Another wave of nausea hits him and he tries to breathe through his nose to fight it off. Not really interesting in throwing up in front of Ryan again. 

“Z’drunk.” Michael explains once it feels like maybe he won’t throw up.

“Yeah no shit.” Ryan kicks him again but this time it’s softer. “Get up.”  
“No.” 

The stairs aren’t comfortable but thinking of moving makes Michael want to die. He curls up again and closes his eyes trying to make everything go away. He’s still too drunk to feel shame.

“You know I ain’t carrying your ass upstairs.” Ryan declares. “Jesus.” 

With those words Michael hears Ryan climb up the stairs, skipping the ones with the puke and head into his kitchen. He hears his television flick on and ESPN blare out. 

He passes out again. 

When he comes to a second time, the house is quiet. His head still pounds but he feels infinitely more sober. 

He crawls up the stairs and pulls himself up on his feet using the banister before lumbering to his bedroom. Ryan is nowhere to be seen.

Michael drinks some water, washes his face and gargles some mouthwash before he falls facedown on his bed and goes back to sleep. 

*

It’s dark when Michael wakes up again.

He feels like shit.

He drags himself out of bed to the shower and stands under the water jets until he feels slightly more human again. He takes some Advil, brushes his teeth and thinks of his empty kitchen and the vodka bottle in the freezer. 

His kitchen isn’t empty though. There are grocery bags from a store he never goes to on the counter. Ryan is stirring a pot of boiling water. He’s using his phone to play music and Michael had forgotten he was there. 

“You sober yet?” Ryan asks without looking away from the pot on the stove. 

“Yeah.” Michael answers and his voice sounds like he’s maybe a hundred, “Thought you’d left.”

“Dude.” Ryan turns around to look at him, “Nah.” 

Michael wants a drink. He walks around his kitchen island, past Ryan and has his hand on the freezer door when Ryan speaks again.

“Your car’s fucked.” Ryan points out, “Dunno what you ran into.” 

“Shit.” Michael hangs his head letting his forehead rest against the cool metal of the fridge door. 

“Still drives.” Ryan says consolingly.

Ryan rips the top of four ninja turtle shaped macaroni and cheese boxes. Takes out the powder packs and dumps the noodles into the boiling water. He takes a step back when the water splatters up to splash his arm. 

Michael blinks because it’s hard to figure out exactly why Ryan Lochte is making macaroni and cheese in his kitchen. Why Ryan isn’t pissed or yelling. Why Ryan is still there. Why Ryan is there in the first place. 

“You drove my car?” Michael asks because it’s the first piece of information his mind is able to wrap around. 

“Moved the Escalade outta the way to take the one you didn’t crash.” Ryan answers, “Had to go get food.” 

Michael never lets anyone drives his cars but Ryan doesn’t follow rules. He turns his head to look at the table where he usually keeps all his car keys. The four hundred dollar wooden bowl the interior decorator had insisted would bring an earthy feel to the industrial space is entirely empty. 

“Where all my keys.” He groans. 

“Same place that vodka bottle is.” Ryan raises an eyebrow at him stirring the pot of boxed macaroni and cheese noodles. “Your life’s bleak Phelps.” 

“I-” 

“Someone came by to clean up your puke.” Ryan tells him, “She saw me so-”

“Maid.” Michael explains, “She signed a non disclosure-” 

“That why no one know you got a drinking problem?” Ryan quietly challenges. 

Michael knows Ryan doesn’t usually talk this fast. Knows Ryan doesn’t usually use words like bleak or go grocery shopping. That Ryan doesn’t cook or miss practice. Ryan’s like dedicated to practice and punctual and now he’s in his kitchen making food. 

“Why are you here?” Michael asks because he can’t keep answering Ryan’s questions without a drink or a joint to dull the reality of everything.

“I’m here because you bought me a ticket.” Ryan patiently explains, “First class too bro. Way to show the love. Then you stood me up at the airport and I found your drunk ass in the stairs.” 

Michael chooses not to answer. Instead he forgets about the vodka and opens the fridge to investigate what Ryan Lochte buys when he goes grocery shopping. 

They call themselves best friends but they don’t really ever act on it. They’re inseparable at meets but as soon as the competitions are over Michael goes back to Baltimore and Ryan goes back to Gainesville and they fall out of touch. 

In the fridge, there’s a case of Mountain Dew, Totino’s pizza rolls, some M&M cookies, milk, a family sized box of Lucky Charms and a bag of apples. 

“We gonna talk ‘bout this?” Ryan rests the wooden spoon carefully on top of the boiling pot of water, “Or d’you wanna pretend you didn’t puke on my shoes.” 

Michael closes the fridge door and wishes Ryan would just leave. 

“Yeah no.” Ryan answers like maybe he’s read his mind, “You were in your own puke in the stairs… You had your keys and your car’s fucked you drove man. Jesus.” 

“I got drunk-” 

“Whom with?” Ryan asks and Michael recognizes Ryan’s best impression of his father. “You better come clean or-” 

“Friends-” 

“Who let you drive home drunk?” Ryan shakes his head, “Those aren’t friends.” 

“D’you just come here to bust my balls?” Michael accuses his tone angry, “Some girl mad at you?” 

“Yeah?” Ryan challenges, “You think you can piss me off?” 

Michael knows he can’t. 

The pot boils over and the water makes a hissing sound when it comes in contact with the hot stove element. Ryan is momentarily distracted. He lifts the pot off the heat until it boils down a bit before he puts it back and starts to stir again. 

“Don’t talk to me like you’re my mom.” Michael requests his voice quiet.

“I call your mom where she think you at?” Ryan challenges again, “I know this ain’t some Debbie approved activities.” 

“Don’t call my mom.” Michael asks and it’s almost begging. 

His mom thinks everything is normal. That he’s attending practice going to business meetings and being a responsible adult. She thinks he’s going on dates and adjusting well to everything. He lies constantly to her and to everyone else. Hangs out with people who don’t ask too many questions, who don’t really care if he’s okay. Who care more that he’s Michael Phelps. People who let him have his car keys and don’t bother checking if he’d made it home okay. 

He can’t remember calling Ryan. 

“How often d’you do this?” Ryan asks and his voice is so full of genuine concern it makes Michael look away. 

“I usually make it up to my couch.” Michael tries to joke because he’s not ready to face how often he gets shit faced drunk. 

“Ain’t funny.” Ryan admonishes.

Michael shrugs. 

Ryan dips the wooden spoon back into the pot and takes out a few noodles, He inspects them for a second before eating one and handing the spoon off to Michael. 

“Michael-angelo.” He mispronounces pointing at the weirdly shaped noodle, “They done?” 

The pasta is too hot. It burns his mouth but it’s definitely cooked and Michael is starving. 

“S’fine.” He answers glad to be talking about something other than his drinking. 

Ryan uses the cover of the pot to strain out the water. He dumps milk and butter into the pasta without measuring anything and stirs the whole mess with vigor before he starts ripping open the envelopes of powdered cheese. 

“Best hangover food.” Ryan declares this by holding out a wooden spoon of toxic looking orange pasta. “Sit.” 

Ryan points to one of the stools next to the island and Michael sits to wait for his food. Like he’s five and waiting for his mom to give him lunch. 

“Breakfast of champions.” Ryan says putting down a bowl of mac and cheese and a cup of black coffee in front of Michael. “Should feel better after.” 

Michael stirs his bowl before taking a bite he eats half the bowl before he realizes that Ryan isn’t eating anything. 

“Can’t eat that shit.” Ryan says once he catches Michael staring, “Got a new trainer. Need to lean out.” 

Michael rolls his eyes because Ryan looks the same. 

“How you going to practice like that?” Ryan asks, straddling the bar stool across from him. 

“M’not.” Michael says through a mouthful of superhero turtle shaped pasta. 

“And no one cares?” Ryan shakes his head, curls bouncing around his face, “Jesus.” 

Michael shrugs because he can’t think about it. Thinking about how no one’s figured out his problem hurts worse than waking up drunk in his own puke sprawled in a staircase. He stirs the macaroni around his bowl for a second and takes a long gulp of black coffee. 

“Who the fuck let you drive?” Ryan asks and his voice is starting to sound angry, “Who the fuck didn’t like call you a cab? You told me you were taking a cab.” 

“We were talking?” Michael says curiously.

“You called me like-” Ryan pulls out his phone and shoves it close to Michael’s face, the front of it is covered in orange cheese powder, “Forever.” 

Michael takes Ryan’s phone. He’s curious to get some clues about the previous night. He’d sent Ryan hundreds of text messages most of them totally senseless. Ryan has thirty missed calls from his number and ten more that he’d answered. 

He goes back through the text messages and scrolls down until he’s faced with a slightly blurry picture of his own dick taken somewhere that looks like a club bathroom. 

“Shit.” Michael winces.

He keeps scrolling down and finds a way less blurry full frontal mirror shot of Ryan. 

“Ha yeah.” Ryan says like it’s an explanation, “Thought you were like-” 

Ryan pushes his curls back like he’s trying to gather his hair up in a ponytail. It’s not long enough and most of it slides out of his grip. He doesn’t make eye contact with Michael who goes back to staring at the picture of a totally naked Ryan. 

He’d drunkenly flirted with Ryan, drunkenly sent him dick shots and instead of laughing and calling him a fag Ryan had sent pictures back. Had flown across the country to come see him. 

“Shit.” Michael repeats. 

“Think I look good.” Ryan shrugs before he takes his phone back and hides it in his pocket. 

Michael’s seen Ryan naked before. He’d seen him change in locker rooms and seen him streak through the Olympic village after loosing a bet. Fuck he’d even seen him have sex with an Australian volleyball player under the sheets across their tiny athlete’s village bedroom. Heard him whisper to the blonde girl that she felt good around his dick. 

He’s never seen Ryan hard and on display for him and he’s too hungover to deal with the fact that he’s getting semi hard just looking at the picture. 

Ryan seems off too. He walks back to the stove and starts eating the mac and cheese straight out of the pot with the wooden spoon. The kitchen is impossibly silent. 

“So like.” Ryan says swallowing a too big mouthful, “I don’t think you should hang out with those people anymore. They don’t care about you.” 

It’s maybe the single most caring thing anyone has said to him in the past two months but Ryan’s statement makes Michael angry. 

“F’you got problems you like you know tell me.” 

Of all the people who should be talking to him like he’s actually retarded Ryan Lochte is in like last place. Because Ryan pretends to be a bartender when he’s bored and because Ryan fucks up his knees learning to breakdance and because Ryan consistently makes dumb choices. Because Ryan doesn’t always remember to lock the doors to his house and routinely gets robbed by the people he hooks up with. Because Ryan’s been legitimately stalked by crazy girls and gotten food poisoning at the Olympics. 

Because Ryan is too goddamn attractive to also be some kind of secret Mensa member. Because Ryan seems to have his life figured out. 

Because Michael knows that if Ryan didn’t show up for practice for three days and didn’t call his family that someone would come looking for him. That none of Ryan’s friends would let him drive home drunk. None of Ryan’s family members would ever buy his excuses. 

Because Ryan has a father who loves him.

Because Michael knows fucking nothing really about Ryan except that he’s loved by almost everyone and that people always end up taking care of him. 

Because Ryan’s family doesn’t make a living off of him. Ryan’s mom hasn’t written a book about him or agreed to a clothing sponsorship. 

Because Ryan has a father who loves him. 

“Get fucking pissed at me dude but I’m the only one here.” Ryan points out. 

Michael leaves the kitchen island and walks to the storage room. He walks down the stairs, past the spot where he’d passed out and turns right. The room is full of paper towels, Gatorade and unopened boxes of Speedo gear and Under Armor shoes. There’s a family pack of Poptarts and a few jars of protein powder. The shelf where his liquor had been is empty. 

“Someone hadta do it.” Ryan says behind him.

“Who the fuck asked you?” Michael says furiously, “Who-” 

He’s yelling and Ryan is taken a back. Instead of continuing to fight Michael pushes past him to walk into his garage to survey the damage to his Escalade. 

The front bumper is wrecked on the driver’s side. He runs his hand over the dent and sees that yellow paint has transferred onto his car’s black finish. 

“Probably like a fire hydrant.” Ryan points out, “Like a cement block. Where were you?” 

“I don’t know.” Michael says pissed off, “I didn’t tell you?” 

“Nah.” Ryan answers. 

“Fuck.” Michael swears frustrated at the damage to his car. “Where d’you hide the booze?” 

His voice comes out hostile and Ryan takes a step back and holds his hands up. 

“It ain’t here.” Ryan explains, side stepping to avoid boxes and a bag of dog food.

“Fuck you.” Michael punches the hood of the car. “Who fucking asked you to-” 

“You did.” Ryan says back, his voice still calm but starting to sound uncharacteristically annoyed, “When you called you don’t even remember what you said so-” 

“I was drunk.” Michael explains, “I didn’t mean-” 

“You said you had no friends.” Ryan says back, “Some shit about no one loving you and your life being a fucking waste and how you wanted to-” 

Ryan shakes his head and stops. He rubs his arms. 

“Wanted to what?” Michael asks. 

“Crash your car.” Ryan answers. 

The garage is dark and freezing cold. The wind outside is strong and Michael can hear it push against the garage door. They’re both quiet and Michael knows Ryan isn’t lying. 

It’s not always crashing his car. Sometimes he finds himself googling how easy it would be to buy a gun or how many pills it would take. He can never bring himself to do it so drinking and driving had become a strange kind of Russian Roulette. So far he’d always made it home. He’d never let himself tell anyone. 

“You didn’t buy my ticket.” Ryan reveals. 

Michael feels numb. 

“So I’m gonna stay.” Ryan keeps talking, “Like for a bit.” 

Michael manages to nod. 

“The booze ain’t here.” Ryan continues, “Not in the house.”

Then Ryan leaves him alone. Ryan walks back into the warm house and Michael hears him go up the stairs before the garage door slams shut. 

*

With Ryan there the house feels less empty. It’s noisier and once Ryan declares that no one in the world keeps a house at sixty degrees in the middle of winter the place gets warmer. 

Despite his supposed new diet, Ryan eats a bowl of mac and cheese and forces Michael to eat a second one. 

They play Madden and Ryan talks nonstop like he’s trying to force Michael to think of something other than the alcohol that should be in the house. 

Michael’s phone rings, the same friends from the night before and Ryan puts Michael’s phone in his pocket and hands Michael his own instead. Michael spends the rest of the night answering the million of questions Ryan’s younger brothers have about where he is because apparently Ryan was suppose to take them to a Gators’ basketball game. 

Ryan leans against him and Michael shifts away from him when he thinks of how hard Ryan had been in the picture he’d sent. 

When it’s time to go to bed Michael points Ryan towards one of the guest bedrooms before heading back towards his own.

The separate sleeping arrangements last for half an hour until Michael hears Ryan walking across the living room towards his bedroom. 

Ryan slips in beside him and Michael is relieved. Alone the numbness is overwhelming and the despair feels a little too real. He hasn’t been able to get to sleep without alcohol for a month. 

“Freezing.” Ryan explains, “Don’t like sleeping alone.” 

“Sleep here.” Michael offers like it doesn’t matter and like Ryan isn’t already in his bed. He holds his breath when he feels Ryan shift closer to him. 

Ryan sits up and leans all the way over him to open the drawer of Michael’s nightstand. Michael hears him rummage through it. 

“No booze there.” He says, trying hard not to brush against Ryan’s bare chest. 

Ryan stops his search and lays back down empty handed. He brings his pillow closer to Michael’s and their legs brush together. Without thinking about it Michael turns towards him and his head comes to rest somewhere close to Ryan’s chest. 

“That’s okay.” Ryan says his arm is already wrapped around Michael’s shoulders. 

Ryan rests his chin against the top of Michael’s head and his breathing evens out. Michael can’t sleep. He tries as hard as he can to remember the night before. To remember exactly when he’d reached out to Ryan because now he’s ashamed. 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to stop and he knows that logically Ryan can stay with him forever. That Ryan isn’t a trained professional. 

“Um.” Ryan says sleepily. His hips have settled closer to Michael, “The pics were like before you said all that shit. I didn’t like-” 

“Yeah.” Michael agrees. 

“We can like forget it.” Ryan shrugs before yawning.

To give himself something other than alcohol to think about Michael stretches his hand to rest against Ryan’s bare abs feeling Ryan’s body rise and fall along with his breaths. Ryan seems to like the touch because he relaxes and settles himself closer. Michael feels Ryan’s lips brush against the side of his head and he lets himself relax a little too.

“My dad’s got like a drinking problem.” Ryan reveals in the darkness, “He got mean and shit he like…” 

Ryan trails off and Michael tries hard not to imagine how the sentence ends. Instead he concentrates on how Ryan is running his fingers through his hair, rubbing against his scalp in small circles. 

“He goes to AA.” Ryan keeps talking, keeps moving his fingers. “My mom and my brothers go to like the family one to like-” 

“D’you?” Michael asks. 

“Um nah.” Ryan dismisses. 

Ryan’s story doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t tell Michael to go to AA and he doesn’t offer a course of action. Michael is pretty sure that getting to Baltimore and pouring out all his booze had been the end all be all of Ryan’s plan. 

Ryan’s fingers slow down and Ryan sleeps but Michael can’t. He eventually wrestles out of Ryan’s grip and goes hunting through the condo for his car keys. He finds them in the pocket of Ryan’s hoodie. He doesn’t find the alcohol. 

He’s ready for practice the next morning before Ryan even wakes up. He leaves him a note and drives his undamaged car. He stops for coffee on the way home and gets one for Ryan too. 

“I’m okay.” He tells Ryan as they drink coffee and watch ESPN, “Was just drunk. You can go home.” 

Ryan doesn’t look like he believes him but Ryan’s phone has been going off all morning. His coach, his mom, his trainer, his brothers and Kyle are badgering him. Ryan’s been gone for twenty-four hours and already everyone in his life is worried. Bob on the other hand hadn’t even asked Michael where he’d been. 

“I’ll call cabs.” Michael promises insistent.

Ryan still doesn’t look like he believes him but after another hour of Michael’s lame excuses he gathers his things, finds a last minute ticket and lets Michael drive him to the airport. 

Driving to the airport with Ryan rapping beside him is the first time in a month Michael hasn’t thought of driving his car off the road. 

Michael is used to pushing people away. He’s usually numb to it. He can’t be numb about Ryan. 

“I can stay dumbass.” Ryan says when they’re parked right outside departure.

Michael can’t bring himself to ask Ryan to stay. 

“Let’s just go back.” Ryan decides, “I-I’ll drive.”

Ryan gets out of the car, walks around to Michael’s side and opens his door. 

“Dude switch.” He taps Michael on the shoulder.

Michael chooses to climb over the center console. His feet are jammed around Ryan’s backpack. He doesn’t look up until they’ve driven away from the airport. 

Ryan drives aimlessly and it takes Michael half an hour to realize that Ryan has no idea where he’s going. 

“We can go to your moms.” Ryan suggests, “Tell her you need-” 

“No.” Michael refuses and it’s the first thing he’s said to Ryan since they’d left his house. 

“Tell me how to get back to your place.” Ryan asks, “I’m lost as fuck.” 

“No.” Michael refuses that one too.

Ryan doesn’t loose patience. He keeps driving towards nowhere until eventually he exits off and merges back somewhere else like he knows what he’s looking for. 

Ryan puts a hand on Michael’s knee and the steady pressure of it feels good. Michael dozes off. 

He wakes up a few hours later and Ryan is still driving. Arguing with Devon over speakerphone. He can’t tell what they’re fighting about but they’re both laughing. 

“Hey I’ll call you back.” Ryan says when he notices Michael is awake, “Don’t wait up.”

“Where are we?” Michael asks. 

“Um…” Ryan looks around confused, “North Carolina? I haven’t like been looking so-There’s water.” He points to the cup holders. “I gotta pull over to piss tell me if you see an exit. My glasses in there?”

Ryan points to his backpack and Michael opens it. Ryan’s black-rimmed glasses are stuffed under a hoodie. He hands them over.

“Yeah that’s better.” Ryan blinks a few times, “My brain was hurtin’” 

“There’s a Taco Bell off of here.” Michael points to a sign, “Three miles.” 

“Yeah buddy.” Ryan smiles, “Good job. Sleep nice?”

Michael yawns and nods, stretching out as best he can in the front seat. His hand hits Ryan’s face and his fingers touch Ryan’s lips. He doesn’t take it away as slowly as he could have. 

The advertised Taco Bell is closed but there’s a McDonald across the street. While Ryan runs for the bathroom Michael waits at a table with his sunglasses on and the hood of his jacket up. No matter how hard he tries he can’t stop his hands from shaking. 

Ryan orders food for them and he puts Michael’s out in front of him like Michael is a kid. Opens the container of his Quarter Pounder and empties the fries into the lid before he spears his drink with a straw. 

“Eat what you can dude.” Ryan says before biting into his first Big Mac. “You’ll feel better.” 

Michael doesn’t eat. Instead he flexes his hands over and over again until Ryan notices. 

“That goes away.” Ryan explains, “S’like withdrals. Eat.” 

Ryan pushes the tray closer to him and Michael eats a handful of fries. He’s halfway through his burger when he relaxes enough to take his sunglasses off and pull his hood down. Ryan is still smiling at him.

“Where we going?” Michael asks even though he’s pretty sure he’s already guessed the destination. 

“Florida.” Ryan says, “You’ll be good with me.”


End file.
